


Incidents Arose From Circumstance

by Catchclaw



Series: We Can Make The World Stop [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Driving, First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do not fall in love with your best friend. That would be my first piece of advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incidents Arose From Circumstance

Do not fall in love with your best friend.

That would be my first piece of advice.

Even if you yourself do not identify him as such, even if you have never had a "best friend" and so are unfamiliar with the concept, do not fall in love with him.

It is not helpful.

At first, I attributed it to our mutually perilous circumstances. A battlefield comradeship, of a sort. I was not certain if humans had a similar term, or experienced a similar effect, but, for me, this description of our relationship made sense.

Ah.

Relationship.  Make note: be careful when you use this word around humans. The word is more loaded for them than it is for us.

Particularly around the aforementioned "best friend."

Certain--inferences may be drawn from such a usage. 

This is how I came to know the concept of "in love with."

I had heard of this idea, of course, before, had tried to wrap my mind around the messy fluidity of its meaning in the various human cultures within which I have spent time. But the--actualization of it, the way in which it is translated into word, into action: that I did not understand, had no need to.  Unlike some of you, I tended to avert my eyes when such--things occurred among the humans I was monitoring. It seemed extraneous. Unnecessary. Confusing. So I ignored it.

Perhaps this was an error on my part. Perhaps things would have been...easier, or less complicated, had I possessed some point of reference from which to operate.

That said.

We were driving from one geographical location to another. He refused to let me, as he put it, "zap" us there, and insisted on taking the much slower, much more complicated route that involved his motorized vehicle engaging in some sort of combat with hundreds of others, all moving along at incredibly slow speeds that seemed to him to be fast, but not fast enough.

It was not an--unpleasant way to travel, but nor was it efficient. 

I offered several suggestions as to how he might encourage his vehicle to interact more effectively with the others as they moved around us, but he did not welcome my assistance. Indeed, he became quite annoyed, accused me of being a "backseat driver"--which did not make sense, as I was sitting in the front seat with him--and then threatened to either tape my mouth shut or to encase me in the trunk for the duration of the ride. Neither of these alternatives sounded pleasant, so I stopped offering assistance.

In retrospect, this decision on my part--this insistence on his--left me with little choice but to study him.

He spent a lot of time "singing"--at least, that is how he defined it, when I asked--along with the radio. Interestingly, many of these songs included references to "God," the "devil," "angels," etc., although the context in which the terms were used made me question how much humans truly understand about the way in which heaven and hell actually function on a day-to-day basis. 

He knew all the words, though he seemed to take the most pleasure in "singing" songs that were slower, that included more references to love: what it is, how one might reasonably obtain it, and from whom. At the very least, the volume of his voice was noticeably louder during these types of musical interludes.

I started watching his mouth move. It was not a conscious decision on my part, but given the way in which his voice was dominating the small, confined space in which we found ourselves, it did not seem like an illogical one.

I have not spent a great deal of time cataloging physical traits among humans, but it seemed to me that his lips were particularly--pleasant, full and wide and flush, so that they stood out even in the dark, even as we drove down roads that were not adorned with artificial lighting. 

I thought of seeing my vessel's lips in the mirror, of gazing at Jimmy's reflection, briefly, and I did not think that my vessel's lips were proportioned quite as well as his. Certainly, I did not think they would be so present in the darkness, as his were.

And his tongue. When he could not remember the words to a line, a chorus, a verse, he would roll his tongue on his lips, then catch it with his teeth and hum until his memory caught back up to the song.

I tapped my vessel's tongue against his teeth and I did not feel the same--jolt?--as I did watching him do the same.

I became so--entranced that I began wishing for the radio to select songs that he did not know, just so that I might spend a mile or two staring at his mouth, considering what it might feel like to have his tongue caught between my--my vessel's--lips.

I--I am recording these details so that others might not repeat my mistakes. Rest assured that these specifics are important, and are directly cogent to my point.

The number of other vehicles on the road decreased as the hour grew later, and, after a while, he became aware of my study.

"Cas," he said, not turning his head. "You're staring."

"I am studying," I said.

He laughed, a noise that once startled me but one that I now found comfortable. Familiar.

"Ok, then. Why are you _studying_ my face? Did I grow another head?"

I tilted my own. "Despite God and his infinite miracles, Dean, it is not possible for you to grow another head."

He groaned, laughing again, shook the steering wheel with his hands. Looked over at me in the dark which was. A bit distracting.

"Cas!" he said again, snorting. "Dude. Seriously. Quit looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I asked. I genuinely did not know to what he was referring. But nor did I take my eyes from his face, even as he turned back to the road, even as his eyes fell back to shadow.

He sighed, still chuckling.

"Never mind," he said, waving his hand around. "Stare away if it makes you happy."

"Why would staring at you make me happy?" I queried, leaning over a little so I could watch his mouth as he answered.

"You tell me," he said, lightly.

I frowned. "Looking at you is not--unpleasant."

He smiled, turned and let me see his face. He may have fluttered his eyelashes at me, but perhaps my eyes were not properly adjusted to the darkness.

"Aw, darlin'," he said. "You sure know how to sweet talk a guy."

My confusion must have shown on my face--on Jimmy's face--because he reached out and slapped my knee. 

"It's just an expression, Cas. Jesus."

When he took his hand away, curled it back around the wheel, my skin--how would I describe it?--it remembered the pressure of his fingers. Wished for that pressure to return. Ached for it.

I--I had no idea what I was feeling, or why. I attributed it to my vessel, to the needs of his flesh, or something, but. But.

Some part of me--Castiel--knew better.

But I ignored this knowledge, this intuition. In retrospect, this may have been a mistake. Perhaps circumstances might have been different had I paid more attention to my instincts. 

But perhaps not.

He reached for the radio, turned it down. 

"So," he said, his voice still light. Teasing. "What'da wanna talk about?"

"I do not have a specific topic of conversation in mind," I told him, truthfully, for "the beauty of your mouth in the dark" did not seem appropriate. Nor did "your hands on my hips as you kiss me," which, distressingly, was where my mind seemed determined to dwell at that moment.

"Uh huh," he said. "Riiight. Dude, come on, I know you well enough to know when something's bugging you. What is it?"

I--did not want to answer that question. I realized with some alarm that what he said was true: he _did_ know me. It was likely that he could tell that something was on my mind.

This was a unexpected revelation. 

We rode in silence for awhile. I suspect that he was patient because he knew that he would win. Had already won.

The woods around us became thicker, closed in on either side of the road, and then the moon disappeared behind them. The darkness gave me some--I felt braver in the dark. When I couldn't see his face. When he couldn't see mine, the hot rush that I could feel creeping up my neck, tucking into my cheeks. My mouth.

"Perhaps we should discuss our relationship," I said.

There was a pause.

Then he started laughing again, so hard that I was concerned that he might lose control of the vehicle.

"Cas," he managed after a minute, trying to catch his breath. "What in the fuck are you talking about?"

"Our--our relationship," I repeated, confused, not certain if I was using the human language incorrectly. Which, at that time, in such close proximity to his mouth his hands his smile, seemed entirely possible.

"So we're dating now?" he asked, chuckling.

I stared towards his face.

"I do not understand." I said. "How does the Gregorian calendar factor into this conversation?"

He snorted and grinned, so deep and wide that it broke through the black and glittered in my eyes. It was. Distracting.

"Oh Castiel," he said, and never was the divinity of my name so clear. "You are such a fucking weirdo."

This was not the response I was expecting.

"I do not, I--" I started, and I felt as though we were having two distinct conversations. That neither of us was really hearing the other. And it was frustrating, and I suppose it was the slowness of our travel, and the darkness that was pressing in, and his proximity that made me--

I slid across the seat and kissed his cheek and he jumped and the vehicle swerved and, for a moment, I did not care if we crashed. 

I moved away, reluctantly, and now it was he who was sputtering, disconnected sounds falling out his mouth.

"Wha--?" he managed after a minute. "What in the fuck?"

I looked over at him, feeling strangely at peace, though my mouth was tingling from the taste of his skin.

"I kissed you, Dean," I said, thinking perhaps that he was unclear on what had just occurred. Given human frailty and their mental delicacy at times, this seemed at least possible. Perhaps being kissed by an angel had disrupted his neural pathways.

He scoffed. "Dude, I was here for that. What I meant was--wait a second. We're not having this conversation while I'm driving," he said, pulling the car to a stop, letting it rest in an opening between the woods and the road.

He turned the key and the vehicle fell silent. For a moment, the sounds of the forest were full and flush in my ears, creatures of my father that moved silently around us, their lives spinning and turning and ending and I felt this ache in my chest that I could not identify, that I had not felt before, and before I could examine it or name it or try to understand he was sliding under me, lifting me into his lap and giving me his beautiful mouth, letting me have all of it at once, and though I was not certain what I was to do, exactly, in return, my vessel and his body spoke to each other and I found my tongue in his mouth, slipping between his teeth and moving over his lips and the sounds he made as we kissed rivaled those of heaven.

Perhaps this sounds to you like hyperbole. Let me assure you: it is not.

His hands moved under my coat and suddenly, all at once, I knew what I was supposed to do, what he wanted from me, and I grabbed his hands and shoved them up and under my shirt, pushed his fingers in my skin and he grinned under my mouth, turned his head so that he could speak.

"Well, well," he said, chuckling. "They teach sex ed up in heaven, huh?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, but fortunately, our physical proximity and my relative position made it easy for me to stop him from speaking, to put his mouth back to better use than babbling nonsense and he seemed to understand my intention because he kissed me harder than before, more demanding, more insistent, and he started growling, which was, although it sounds odd, quite pleasant, pulling my body down to his and rocking up to meet me.

I reached down, tried to touch him, but there was too much fabric in the way, and the narrowness of the front seat made it even more difficult, and I may have become frustrated, may have torn his shirt as I reached for him, as I sank my hands into his chest his sides his flesh and it became apparent that he liked this, both from his choice of words and the sting of his--I do not like any of the human terms for this part of their anatomy, never have, but at this moment I will admit that my ability to become particular about language failed me somewhat--the sting of his cock against me, this thing I had never felt before, like this, but that my body my vessel seemed to recognize and respond to in kind.

"Oh, fuck, Cas," he said, a sigh and a groan all once, for a moment I feared that I had hurt him, had damaged his flesh in my eagerness, but he slid his hands down my body and locked them around my hips and opened his mouth for me and then I thought that I might be the one to become damaged, for it felt as though I was being flayed alive, torn into strips by his voice his hands his desire and, I thought, that would not be an unpleasant way to die.

I kissed him again and by now I was familiar with some of the moves he would expect me to make, the ways in which I could move my tongue in order to elicit the greatest response, but all of a sudden he let go of my hips, grabbed my head and pulled it away. Looked into my face, as best he could in the darkness.

He seemed to be looking for something. Confirmation, perhaps. I do not know.

Then he laughed, and the sound of it made me smile.

"Backseat," he said, breathless. "Get in the backseat. Now! Seriously." He reached over and opened one door, then the other, and tossed me into the back of the vehicle. I sat up, reached for him, but he stood outside for a moment. Staring at me. Grinning like some otherworldy creature.

Then he started pulling off his clothes: his jacket, the shirt I had unfortunately destroyed, his boots, his jeans, and by the time he finished I was--

I was having difficulty breathing. You may see this as a failing on my part, but I think it is fair to say that I reacted as any other of our father's creations might have. 

And he knew exactly how I was reacting, which was distressing, because it meant that he had done this for, with, to others and I did not want to think of that, of any others, angels or humans or otherwise, seeing him this way, so I reached for him again and he pulled me out, held me at arms' length for a moment, let me struggle in his hands and then he laughed, started tugging my garments out of the way, a process which I may have made more difficult because I kept trying to touch him, to run my hands over his skin, but he just shook me off, pushed me back against the car and reached for my belt and by the time my clothes were in the dirt with his I was shaking and he chuckled and shoved me away, threw me back into the car and climbed over me and finally, finally kissed me again, sunk his tongue into my mouth and wrapped his body around mine.

We may have kissed for a minute or an hour--I am not certain--but then he slid his mouth away from mine, over my jaw my chin and around my neck, and it is at that point that I may have said some things that were not particularly proper for an angel to say, particularly within earshot of a human, but his mouth was a thing unholy, at that moment, and so I do not blame myself.

I shoved my hands into his hair as he slid down my body, his mouth his tongue working into my skin, his fingers gliding along behind.

"Dean," I panted, trying to sit up, trying to see what he was doing, where he was going so that I could try and prepare, get myself ready for his next assault. This was not the sort of battlefield comradeship I had had in mind, exactly, but this sort of war, of give and take and push and pull and he and I was even better.

I could feel his lips curving against my skin and when he sat up a little, I could see that he was smiling.

"Hi, Cas," he said, running his fingers over my hip. "How're you doin' up there?"

"Oh, fuck, Dean," I groaned, mouthing his words and finding them a surprisingly appropriate expression for what I was feeling. "Fuck, Dean, please--"

He shot back up my body, shoved his mouth into my face, and I could feel his cock brush over mine and I made a sound that I cannot accurately describe. It felt like glass shattering in my mouth and his body rippled with pleasure above me, and he pushed his head down to kiss me again. We struggled with each other, bodies tangled, and all at once something started to build inside of me that I could not identify but that I wanted more than--more than anything.

He seemed to feel it, whatever it was, and he moaned encouragement into my mouth, tipped himself over so he could slid his hand between us, and when he grabbed my cock that thing building in me started to ring in my ears and I shoved myself into his hand, counting his fingers as they bit into my flesh, as his tongue worked in my mouth and I pulled my head away, started pouring his name into the dark and he slid down again, not letting me go, and wrapped his tongue around my cock.

And I sang for him, shaking, afraid I was about to fly apart.

He sat up, suddenly, took his mouth away from me, and I cried out.  

"You're not gonna light up when you come or something, right?" he panted.

"When I come--where?" I managed, trying to push his head back down.

He snorted, and I could feel his breath whisper across my skin.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" he murmured, and swallowed me whole.

What came next--

Dean would say, what came next was me. He would say it with this grin, one that says bravado and self-satisfaction and a cockiness that I love to kiss off of his face, shove away from his mouth as I stroke his cock, which, interestingly, he finds almost as pleasurable as when I take him in the back of my throat. I think there is part of him that likes to be able to see how his body reacts to me, likes to watch my fingers catch his head and thumb the slit and then moan back into my face, pushing his mouth into my throat.

Pardon me.

What I meant to say was that I cannot describe the feeling of coming inside of his mouth, of feeling that energy that had gathered inside of me dispel itself all at once. The pleasure it gave me. That it gave him.

He sat up and straddled me and he wasn't smiling, his face lost and hollow and right on the edge of something wonderful. He reached for my hands, of which I had completely lost track, and tucked them onto his hips. I was not able to discern what was occurring for a moment, but then I suddenly realized where his hands were, that they were flying over his cock and that he was sighing, moaning, shaking, and I could feel his hips rocking under my hands.

I looked at him and saw a kind of beauty that exists, I think, only among humans, only in moments like that, for he was so vulnerable and powerful and alive all at once that it hurt my eyes. 

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the image of him burned into my soul.

I was awake enough, now, and I pulled my hand from his hip and found his wrist, wrapped my fingers around it as he stroked, and now we were moving together, working as one, and the pleasure I took from that did not break me, as before, but it sank itself deep inside of me, dug its nails into my heart.

"Cas," he said, his voice high and pleading, hot and pleasing. "Cas, oh, Castiel, please, I need to come, please let me come."

"Dean," I said in the dark. "Dean. Come for me."

And his wrist stilled under my hand and his hip stopped rocking under the other and he poured himself over my stomach my chest my throat and he leaned down to kiss me, murmuring into my mouth and I was--

I was happy. I loved him so much in that moment that I ached with it.

"I love you," I said into his mouth, trailing my fingers down his spine.

He sat up a little, grinning at me in the dark.

"You're damn right," he said, as if that made any sense, and gave me back his tongue.

So.

All that said.

I will return to the central tenant of this communication.

This warning:

Do not fall in love with your best friend.

It makes things complicated. Messy and unpredictable. Disquieting at times. Difficult.

It makes things good and sweet and hotter than all the furnaces of hell. Of this I speak from experience.

And so does he.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a friend who adores Castiel--even though she's never watched _Supernatural_.


End file.
